


Hold Me Tight

by Anonymous



Category: A Hard Day's Night (1964), The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Abduction, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Crying, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Feminization, Forced Feminization, Forced Orgasm, Gang Rape, Group Sex, Humiliation, Kidnapping, M/M, Nipple Play, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Pregnancy Kink, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sort Of, Spanking, Spitroasting, Swearing, Unrequited Lust, Verbal Humiliation, Voice Kink, a lot of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27239212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Three stagehands on the set of A Hard Day’s Night find themselves lusting after Paul. Increasingly frustrated, they decide to take matters into their own hands.I got suggested to write something about 1964 Paul in a group. Take note of the warning/tags, the story’s pretty intense.
Relationships: Paul McCartney/Original Character(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 35
Collections: Anonymous





	Hold Me Tight

**Author's Note:**

> God dammit what the fuck is this, I don’t even remember writing this.

Johnny, Trotsky, and Marx: three stagehands working on a film. This film was called “A Hard Day’s Night”, and featured this northern music group. The movie needed to be finished quickly, as to cash in on the group’s popularity before it waned. The three stagehands were obviously not the target demographic, which was all well and good, but they were getting increasingly bothered by one of the members: Paul.

It wasn’t that he was difficult to work with. Quite the opposite, actually. He was polite enough to the crew, not going out of his way to be a nuisance or anything. Hell, Paul barely even spoke to them.

No, it was something else entirely. Despite being a man, Paul was completely irresistible to them. His arched eyebrows, bedroom eyes, small delicate lips, soft cheeks, and subtle curves. He even fucking moved like a woman, carrying himself gracefully. The three stagehands hadn’t said anything to each other, but they could feel the tension among them.

A music sequence was being filmed at the moment, one of several. This one, however, focused solely on Paul, as he sang a slow ballad in his sweet, deep voice. His dark clothes accentuated his feminine figure, as he rocked and tapped his foot along with the music, delicate hands moving along the neck of his guitar.

Johnny sat with Trotsky and Marx, watching from behind the cameras. They didn’t have to do anything during the filming, their job was to move set pieces and such. Trotsky spoke up.

“Boys, be straight with m’ here. I must be losing it, but doesn’t McCartney look like a fuckin’ tart?”

“Nah, he’s a fucking piece, son” Groaned Johnny.

“Gave me a fuckin’ shock seein’ him turn round, it did. Thought he was a bird. Got an ass on him, don’t he?” 

“Saw ‘him bend over earlier to pick up ‘his guitar. Nearly ruined me trousers.” Marx said.

“Fuck me, He’d get it right up bum.”

“Girly face, too. If he ‘had a dress on I wouldn’t be thinkin’ twice ‘bout havin’ a go.”

“He’s a fuckin’ tease, up there. Doin’ his fuckin’ singin thing. Jus’ beggin for it he is. He’d do well with a good poundin’”

“A ‘fucking tease’ s’right, Johnny. He’s up there prancing ‘round like a bird. We can’t even feel ‘him up. S’ fuckin’ killing me.”

“I’d kill ta get a piece of ‘him”

The camera moved around his face, flooding him with light as he sang the last few words. He looked upwards wistfully, selling the ballad.

The stagehands murmured in agreement, grumbling in frustration. Paul ended the song with a fluid tilt of the head, flourishing his hand over the final note.

\---

  
  


Towards the end of the shoot, Trotsky snuck a sedative into Paul’s water glass. Security would obviously be tight around the group when they left, due to the hysterical nature of their fans. The best bet would be to snatch him away before the day ended. Maybe they’d just assume Paul snuck away to plow an extra in a supply closet. 

The men knew their plan had worked when Paul began acting loopy. His movements began sluggish and he had trouble keeping his eyes open. His surroundings began to get fuzzy. He didn’t take note when his bandmates and the crew began shifting focus to the next scene, leaving him behind.

Johnny walked over to him, helping him stand upright.

“S’alright, doll?” He asked Paul.

“I don’ feel s’good” he slurred, leaning into Johnny.

Johnny relished his warm body against him, he’d been craving this. Paul was too inebriated to take note of the pet name. “Think m’sick.” he said.

“S’alright, sweetheart.” Johnny said lovingly. “Me n’ my friends will take care of ya, right boys?”

Marx and Trotsky nodded in agreement. 

“He’s a bit ‘heavy, give me a ‘hand here Marxie.” said Johnny.

A dazed Paul allowed himself to be lifted up, and slung over Johnny’s shoulder. He moaned at the movement, but gave no protest.

\---

They got a shitty motel room. The front desk lady didn’t even bat an eye as the stagehands carried him in. The sedative was short acting, they wanted Paul to be awake for this, to hear his sweet noises. They took off his coat. It had a cute rounded collar, complimenting his pretty features. They bound his wrists together with rope above his head, and blindfolded him. As pretty as his eyes were, they were also rather intense. Paul could shift the power to himself with an enraged glare. They used his tie to gag him.

Though the motel was lowbrow, they didn’t need noise complaints if he began screaming for help. Additionally, they knew he was a charmer. They didn’t need to hear his siren voice try to talk them out of it. 

They laid him on the springy hotel bed, waiting patiently for their darling to regain consciousness.

Paul began to stir, stretching his long legs over the duvet, enthralling the men all over again. They watched him change from sleepy disorientation, to looking concerned. Paul shifted his delicate wrists in his bindings, turning his head from side to side, realizing he couldn’t see. His predicament quickly dawned on him, and he shook adorably on the bed. He pushed himself back with his legs, until his back hit the headboard. He couldn’t speak with his gag.

“Morning’ sleeping beauty.” cooed Johnny.

Paul wasn’t stupid, he knew the effect he had on both women... and men. Thoughts were likely running through his head. He was a big celebrity, it was quite possible that he was just being held for ransom. They were just taunting him. People would pay a lot of money to get him back, even the government, as his disappearance would cause hysterica among the youth. 

He didn’t want to consider the alternative.

The stagehands watched him tremble on the mattress with smug satisfaction. The man unknowingly driving them mad was now in their grasp. The proud celebrity, doted on by the crew, in part due to his fame and money, in part due to his captivating beauty. Adored by women, taking whichever one he wanted. Paul didn’t have power over them now, eyes concealed, and unable to bewitch them with his melodic voice.

“He’s even cuter up close-like.” Marx said 

“He’s a bit bigger than ‘expected. Not quite a dainty little lady... Not that I’m complainin”

“More of ‘him to love, eh?” jeered Trotsky.

The three stagehands laughed harshly. Paul shrunk into himself, his fears confirmed. He couldn’t make a run for it as he couldn’t see.

“Boys, he’s got a sweet body an all, but I wanna see that gorgeous mug of ‘his”

Johnny pulled him up by his bangs, exposing his forehead. Paul whined in distress, muffled by his gag. Johnny then yanked off the blindfold, revealing Paul’s distressed, pretty face. His eyes were tightly shut, and his face was scrunched up, trembling in Johnny’s grasp.

“Fuck. He’s breathtaking” said Marx.

Johnny examined his face, tilting it up with his finger. Paul cringed at the contact, still afraid to open his eyes. He couldn’t support himself with his bound hands.

“Are we gonna fuck ‘him or what?” Said Trotsky.

Johnny let go of Paul’s hair, letting him fall back down on the mattress with a creak.

“Don’t be so hasty. Dont’cha think we oughta take our time?” Johnny laughed. “A beauty like ‘him comes once in a lifetime.”

Johnny turned Paul over to his back. He began feeling up his hips, fingers curling around his ass and exploring his sides. Paul couldn’t be mistaken for a woman, his shoulders were a little broad. His limbs, though shapely and delicate, weren’t dainty. 

Johnny ran his hands roughly up Paul’s abdomen, separated only by the thin material of his collared shirt. Being gagged, Paul expressed the majority of his expression through his eyes. They were wide and horrified, darting around the room. He was too afraid to emasculate them with an intense glare. 

If he were a woman, Johnny’s instinct would be to grab Paul’s breasts. Paul didn’t have any, so Johnny grabbed the reasonable equivalent, somewhere else the fabric stretched to accommodate a sexual characteristic.   
  


Johnny roughly grabbed Paul’s crotch, squeezing it. The snug trousers Paul’s group wore definitely caused the stagehands ample grief during filming.

Paul screamed in surprise and pain. 

“What a delicious sound.” Trotsky chuckled.

Paul transitioned to pleading with his watering eyes, glancing between Marx and Trotsky, trying to garner sympathy.

“Your angel eyes won’t change our mind, sweet thing.” said Marx.

Paul shut his eyes. A few tears slipped from them as he let out a sob. The two other stagehands grinned down at him as Johnny harshly felt him up.

“Eh, look! Paulie popped a stiffy!” Said Trotsky, joyfully.

Paul didn’t mean to. He didn’t want this. He sobbed into the gag. He didn’t want to be hard. They were groping and fondling it, so it went up. He couldn’t help it. Even his own body went against his will.

“Don’t be so glum, kitten. We’ll take good care of ya. You’ll enjoy it good” Cooed Johnny, caressing Paul’s thigh.

Paul cringed into the pillow as Johnny made a move to undo Paul’s trouser buttons.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Paul kicked him. Hard. A direct hit to his ribs. It knocked Johnny back, as well as knock the wind out of him. Not only was Paul’s kick powerful, the leather block heel of the Chelsea boot provided a good punch. With Johnny off him, Paul slammed his bound fists into Trotsky’s face. 

“FUCK! That was painful as SHIT!” Johnny hollered in surprise, which immediately melted into anger. Before Paul got a chance to swing at Marx, Johnny leapt across the bed, wrapping his hand tight around Paul’s throat.

“Listen here you little _slut_ .” Johnny said slowly, drawing out each syllable, his tone dangerously low. “You fuckin’ _tease_ .”

He squeezed Paul’s neck at each slur, emphasizing them. Paul’s face was squished, distorting his features. He shook very hard in Johnny's grip, which was tight enough to leave bruises. His eyes were blurry with tears, wheezing and sobbing as he struggled to breathe. Johnny squeezed tighter, his eyes boring into Paul’s.

“You pull any more of that _shit_ , and things could get a _lot_ worse for you.” He paused, stressing his final words. “Understand me?”

Paul could only let out a squeak, gagged and struggling for breath. Johnny let go, allowing Paul’s head to fall on the pillow, bouncing on the spring mattress. He coughed, simultaneously trying to catch his breath and violently sobbing. It was difficult with the gag, which was causing him to drool down his chin. Snot ran down his nose as tears ran down his face. 

“Fucker nearly broke me nose.” Trotsky griped.

Marx cleaned Paul’s face with a tissue, though more in the interest of prettying him up. He lightly pinched Paul’s nose.

“Blow”

Paul blew his nose on the tissue, having to catch his breath first. It was humiliating, like he was a little kid. He kept trying to stifle his noises.

“Won’t you guys pull those damned boots off ‘him?” Grumbled Johnny.

Marx and Trotsky undid the zippers, slipping off his shoes. Paul drew his legs into himself, attempting to get into a fetal position. 

“Hold ‘him down, would you? Bitch packs quite a punch.” Johnny said.

Paul was too terrified to do more than shake, though when they put their hands on him, he wanted to lash out again. Trotsky sat on his arms, pinning them to the bed, and Marx held his left leg up.

“Right then.” said Johnny. Despite everything, Paul was _still_ hard, straining against his pants. Johnny returned to stroking it, palming it, squeezing through his trousers to make him squirm in their grip.

“Don’t be so afraid, Paulie.” Johnny’s voice was sickly sweet. “If you’re a good little pet, we won’t hurt ya, see? Right boys?”

The stagehands nodded, Trotsky more reluctantly as he held his nose.

Paul made quiet noises of discomfort as Johnny began undressing him. He tried to shift his body away from the touches but he could only move so much. Paul knew that even if his wrists were free, he couldn’t take three other men, it was just to make their job easier.

Johnny slipped his trousers off, then tore open his buttoned shirt, not being bothered to undo them. He ripped the sleeves off of him, as Paul’s wrists were bound. When Johnny's hands caught on the rim of his pants, Paul whined and cried, struggling against the men. Johnny was easily able to rid him of it, and Paul shivered at the cold air. With Marx holding his leg up, he was completely exposed for all three men to ogle.

“What a pretty little thing.” sneered Trotsky.

“He’s got no tits, but ‘his chest’s real soft. He’s got real pink puffies.”

Johnny began massaging his chest, Paul hummed. He was sensitive there, embarrassingly so. Bad enough he had to look like a woman, he needed to have a sensitive chest too? Shamefully his eyes became unfocused as Johnny touched him there as if he was a woman, pinching, caressing, pressing his fingers into his nipples.

Paul’d never played with them out of pride, god forbid tell any of the women he slept with to. He gasped when Johnny put his mouth on them, trying his best not to react, but it was a pleasure he denied himself for so long. His prick twitched against the cold air. Despite himself, Paul thrust his hips upward, pressed his chest closer. He forgot about his situation for the briefest of moments.

“Oh ho! Paulie likes having his tits played with, does he?” Trotsky said. Paul started crying again, being reminded of his predicament. These men were only toying with his body for his reactions.

“He’s got quite a bit of hair, don’ he? Lookit his fuzzy thighs.” Said Johnny. “S’ quite cute, really, it’s so soft. Not really masculine.”

“Like a little kitten” Cooed Marx. Johnny ran a rough palm inside his thigh, enjoying the fluffy texture, making Paul’s skin scrawl.

They began toying with his genitals, not to please him, but rather to play with it like a new toy. All three stagehands were attracted to women, so this was new territory to explore after all. Johnny was rougher, pulling at his balls harsher than Paul would’ve liked. He must be trying to see how much he could push it before hurting Paul, or maybe just revenge for the kick. 

“It's so _pretty_ , isn’t it Johnny?” Trotsky said, referring to his dick.

“Well what’d ya expect from ‘him, Trolly?”

“It’s so cute and pink, hasn’t got a mark on’t. S’ so smooth n’ soft. All hot n’ ready from yer touchin’. Like a candy.”

“Lookit his pubes, Trolly, so soft. Mine ain’t this soft”

Johnny played with it, running his fingers through the fuzz.

Paul was disgusted at the unintentional pleasure he was getting from having his genital stimulated. Even the rough touches shot pleasure into his core, making him harder. The rough hands stroked his shaft, fingered the head, grabbing and pulling it harshly, trying to see what reactions they’d get out of him.

Without warning, Trotsky shoved a finger in him. Paul screamed. The dry member felt like a razor blade tearing into him. Johnny pulled Trotsky back.

“Trolly, you fuckin’ idiot. S’ not a cunt. If ya go in try you’ll hurt ‘him” Said Johnny.

Trotsky looked genuinely concerned.

“I’m sorry sweetheart.” He said, caressing Paul’s soft pubic hair in apology.

“I’ve got something to slick him up.” Said Johnny.

He’d bought Vaseline on the way. They’d driven, and stopped by a convenience store for the rope and blindfold. Johnny popped out to get them, leaving an unconscious Paul in the car with Trotsky and Marx.

Johnny popped off the lid, scooping a large amount onto his fingers. He pressed two slicked off fingers against his entrance. Paul let out frightened whines, struggling as Johnny slowly pushed them inside. 

Johnny twisted and scissored his fingers inside him. Mainly to prep Paul so he wouldn’t be hurt, but at the same time, Johnny got a sick sense of glee from hearing Paul’s pained, distressed noises.

“There’s ‘supposed to be a spot in ‘him that’ll make him go crazy.” Marx suggested.

“How the fuck do ya know that, Marx?” Said Trotsky.

Johnny, intrigued, took the suggestions, feeling around Paul’s insides.

“Are ye sure ‘bout that, Marx? Why’d a man have somethin’ like that-”

A deep moan from Paul interrupted him. Not of fear or pain, but pleasure.

“Oh ho!” said Johnny haughtily.

Johnny kept pushing into that spot. He pressed it, rubbed it, tapped it, anything to get a reaction from the poor bassist. Paul writhed on his fingers, mouth slack. Johnny was able to cause McCartney to continuously leak precum from his silt.

When it seemed like Paul was getting closer, Johnny stopped. He wanted Paul to be denied satisfaction, just like all three of them were these past two weeks.

”fuckin’ sexy fuckin 'tart.” Johnny said.

“Alright. Who gets to fuck ‘him first?” Said Marx 

“S’ was my idea! I drugged ‘him. I got the ‘supplies. I booked the motel. Obviously I get the first go!” Johnny said, unzipping his fly.

“Goddammit, fine” Said Trotsky.

Marx let go of Paul’s leg, allowing Johnny to grab Paul’s thighs, yanking them apart. Paul was wedged between the headboard pillows and Johnny.

Paul’s eyes were wide and terrified, staring into Johnny’s furious ones. Johnny wasn’t just looking at him with lust, but also with hunger. He’d been denied him too long, and now he’d have his fill, tearing Paul limb from limb.

Johnny messed with Paul’s head further, grazing his tip against Paul’s entrance, exceptionally lightly, driving Paul mad with fear and trepidation.

“M’ gonna deflower you now, princess. Y’ready?” Johnny said lovingly, sickly sweet.

Paul couldn’t speak, but shook his head furiously, releasing audible sobs. He couldn’t escape the intimate proximity, feeling Johnny’s body heat, heart beat and breaths on him. He was drooling down his chin, his cheeks streaked with tears.

Paul’s miserable condition further aroused Johnny. Johnny had done this to him, releasing the usually poised and suave man to tears. He’d finally got his hands on the cock-tease he had to watch get doted-on endlessly as they filmed the movie. Johnny was going to be the first man to enter him, cum deep inside him, _claim him_. He especially liked the effect his words were having on Paul, so he continued. 

“You know it, precious. I’m gonna tear into your sweet cunt. I’m gonna cum deep inside ya, see? I’m gonna fill up yer little womb, and yer gonna have my child.”

It was muffled through the gag, but Johnny knew Paul was shrieking “No! No! No! No! No!” through his cries as he shook his head frantically and squeezed his eyes shut.

“ _Yes,_ sweetheart.”

Johnny wanted to take his time with this. He could only do it once, after all. He could restrain himself.

He put the slightest amount of pressure on Paul’s entrance, dragging it out. He watched Paul’s eyes become more frantic as he painstakingly slowly increased the pressure. Johnny made sure to draw out the moment before his head popped in as long as possible. When he got to the cusp of it popping in, he held it there, prolonging the discomfort.

Paul let out a long whine, body rocking as he began to sob. It would only take a small nudge from Johnny, for Paul to be deflowered.

After a sufficiently long amount of time, Johnny slammed completely in without warning. Paul screamed as loud as he could through the gag from surprise and the stretch.

Being inside of him was indescribable. Paul was so Goddamed hot, and even more so tight. Paul clenched around him deliciously, sucking him in further.

“Oh fuck, boys, he’s so fuckin’ good.” Johnny strained.

Johnny wasted no time in fucking Paul’s prepped entrance. Hw pulled out just to slam back in harder, being extra rough and fast to get noises out of Paul. Each time Johnny roughly slammed into him, Paul shrieked and tightened, getting the air knocked out of him.

Johnny was in complete bliss, grabbing Paul’s shapely limbs, bruising the pale skin on his sweet hips, thighs and shoulders in his tight hold. Johnny loved Paul’s soft bare stomach sliding against him. Paul’s body fat made his body seem even more feminine, softening his curves, soft and sweet scented. This felt even better than he could have imagined.

Johnny sunk his teeth in Paul’s neck, making sure to leave a mark where it’d show. Paul screamed as his skin broke.

All three stagehands were aroused, and the other two painstakingly watched as Johnny got the first taste. Johnny took notice of his friend’s frustrated expressions.

“Alright then.” Johnny said, addressing them, then turned back to Paul, speaking in a serious tone.

“Listen dolly, m’going to take off yer gag now. Don’t even think ‘bout shoutin’. Ya don’t need to say nothin’ either.” Johnny took a sweeter tone next. “You can’t charm your way out of this’un, angel.”

Paul squeezed his eyes shut as Johnny removed the gag, Paul macked his lips, getting used to his mouth being able to close. After wetting his mouth, Paul croaked:

“Why?”

His sweet voice was a bit sore, cracking as he began crying again.

“What did I do? Please let me go.” Paul sobbed.

“Can’t.” Cooed Johnny. “We’ve all been very patient, but there’s only so much a man can take y’know. You’re quite the temptress, Paulie.”

“Why?” Paul said again, raspily. quietly. 

“Can I take his mouth now for Chrissake?” Groaned Trotsky.

“Hold on a sec” Johnny said. He yanked Paul from his place against the headboard pillows, tossing him facedown on the center of the bed. Before Paul had a chance to roll on his back, Johnny re-entered him swiftly, prompting a squeak, and pinning him down.

Trotsky kneeled in front of Paul, pulling out his dick. As he held Paul’s face up by his chin, turning it side to side, Trotsky’s expression became confused.

“He won’t open his mouth,” he said, dumbfounded. Sure enough, Paul had his eyes and lips tightly shut, drawn into a thin line.

“Plug his nose, dumbass” Johnny said.

“Oh,” 

Trotsky pinched the bridge of Paul’s button nose, causing him to gasp and open his mouth, unable to breathe.

“If ya bite I’ll fuckin’ kill ya.” Trotsky said.

“Don’t scare the poor thing,” Johnny said lovingly, caressing Paul’s hip where they were connected.

“Easy for you to say. I don’ want ‘him to bite my dick off with those rat teeth of his for Godssake.”

“Nah, Trolly, those’re real cute. Like a little bunny rabbit”

Still pinching Paul’s nose, Trotsky shoved himself in, past his Paul's pink pouty lips.

Paul complained, understandably, but after a couple of seconds, began frantically struggling, without making a sound.

“Don’t keep his nose plugged you dumb cunt!” Marx shouted from behind Trotsky.

“Whoops,” Trotsky let go.

“You dumb fuckin cunt, Trotsky!” Johnny laughed “don’t suffocate the poor devil.”

Paul inhaled furiously through his nose, though not much help as he was getting harshly pounded from both ends. He gagged on Trotsky’s dick.

Trotsky didn’t sympathize with Paul’s miserable whines and whimpers, fucking his mouth with raging enthusiasm, pulling his head closer by the hair. The men just kept pulling his hair, all long and yankable, like a bird’s. Still, he didn’t dare bite down, not wanting to figure out if Trotsky’d follow through with his threat.

“Fuck me ‘his mouth’s nice,” groaned Trotsky. “Fuckin’ wet n’ hot. His sobbin’ just makes it better, tightening ‘round me like a cunt.”

Seeing Paul’s pretty face in distress, precious lips stretched around his girth as he pulled his face up by his bangs, turned Trotsky on like nothing else. It filled him with a sick sense of pride.

“Tha s’right. Gag on it, whore.” he said.

Paul whimpered between them. Any effort to get away from one end made him go deeper into the other. He felt humiliated and violated, unable to even keep his pride as he felt six eyes bore into him from every angle.

Johnny looked down at where he was connected to him. Another rush of arousal went through him as he watched himself disappear in and out of that perfect ass he’d been fantasizing about for weeks. It stretched out those tight trousers his group wore. Paul’s suit jacket would drape over it, showing his back’s curve, but leaving things to the imagination.

Paul had taken it off during one of the faster paced music sequences where him and his group ran around a field like madmen. Johnny had to carry set-pieces in front of himself in order to conceal the stiffy he got from watching that perky rear.

Johnny got mad again, that Paul made him go through all that frustration. He brought his hand down hard on Paul’s ass, causing him to shriek around Trotsky’s member.

Paul’s shriek sent Johnny over the edge. He pulled Paul closer by the hips, going in as deep as he could. He filled Paul up to the brim with cum he’d been saving just for him during these past few weeks.

Paul groaned at the discomfort. The cum felt awful in his gut, warm, humiliating, seeping into him. It kept him constantly aware of what the man did to him.

Johnny pulled out after a moment, slapping his hand down again for good measure. Paul’s second shriek sent Trotsky over the edge. Trotsky shoved himself completely inside, holding Paul’s head there, pressed flush against him. Trotsky plugged Paul’s nose again, not releasing him until Paul woefully swallowed every drop of his release, making cute little gulping noises.

When Trotsky let go, Paul pulled away, coughing and gagging. His face was red from the oxygen deprivation, before crying again. He wanted to vomit. They came inside him, made him fucking drink their cum. He could still taste the awful fluid.

Paul tried to get up, but it was difficult with his wrists bound. He scooted onto his knees, which resulted in him raising his ass in the air. This enticed Johnny to spank it again.

Paul froze, fearful his movements would provoke more responses. He buried his face in the duvet, resuming his sobbing.

“Fuck Johnny, why’d ya have’ta cum in ‘him?” Said Trotsky.

“Fuckin’ hell was I not gonna cum in ‘him Trolly. Fuckin’ indescribable. He took it so well, too.”

Johnny ran his hand over the curve of Paul’s ass, prodding a finger inside Paul’s abused entrance. He moved it around inside, feeling his cum. He then began massaging the special spot that made Paul leak and moan.

“He needed someone to cum nice and deep, beggin’ for it since the day we first saw ‘him. He won’ get pregnant, will ‘he?”

The stagehands all laughed.

“Fuckin’ wish! I’d knock ‘him up real good, let me tell ya.” Said Trotsky.

“Fuck I could go again.” Johnny said, salivating at Paul’s naked body. Paul lay trembling on his stomach, delicate shoulder blades, his back that curved into his perfect ass, arched to retain balance. His pale skin contrasted beautifully with his dark hair.

“Eh, lay off. S’my turn." said Marx "I ‘had to jus’ watch and pull my plonker while you two ‘had yer way with ‘him.”

Marx pulled Paul’s slack body up by the arms, sitting him on his lap. He pressed Paul’s naked back against his chest, as he sat against the headboard. Paul tried to squirm out of his grip, spreading his thighs, exposing himself as he tried to find his footing.

Marx did a lot of the heavier lifting on set, and was able to restrain him easily, curling his arms around Paul’s biceps. Marx buried his mouth in Paul’s neck, biting it, licking the shell of his ear.

Paul froze up in fear, only able to shake in his grip. 

“Good position, Marx. Ya can really see his pretty chest.” said Trotsky, whistling.

“Mmm hmm, you can see ‘all of ‘him real clear-like.” Said Johnny.

Paul put up a fight again as Marx raised him up, intending to lower him down on his shaft.

Paul shrieked as he slid down on it, unable to resist Marx’s strength and gravity, as Marx slowly filled him up. There wasn’t great variety between them, but Marx was the largest. Paul wasn’t in pain, rather experiencing a large stretch along with the mortifying humiliation.

“Yer too prideful, Paulie. You’d enjoy it more if ya’d just let it be.”

Marx began fucking up into him, lifting him from underneath his arms.

Paul tried to disassociate himself from the situation and block out their gaze by shutting his eyes, but that only heightened the sensations. He tried to hold back his voice, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of watching him cry and moan, but it was so difficult. Marx was having an easier time hitting that damned spot inside of him, the angle and gravity making Marx’s cockhead hit it hard with each thrust.

Johnny tilted up his chin, forcing eye contact as he got fucked. 

“C’mon, why don’cha sing for us? You’ve got the sweetest singing voice?” He said.

His friends chuckled at the comment. Paul looked miserable, shutting his eyes again as tears ran down his cheeks, lip trembling. He didn’t respond other than whining at the pounding he was receiving. To add to his humiliation, Paul was still hard, his prick moving along with the momentum and intermittently slapping against his belly.

“God, what a delicious little pecker. He’s leakin’ like a bird all over the sheets.” Said Trotsky.

“You better fuckin’ make ‘him cum, Marxie. We can’ leave out lovely kitten unsatisfied can we?” Said Johnny.

Now that they fucked him, they were less bitter about Paul being a prick-teaser. They wanted to hear what sounds he made when he came.

Paul shook his head frantically. He didn’t want to cum in front of these men, he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing that. They already took enough from him.

Marx reached around Paul’s body and began whacking him off rapidly from behind. Paul twisted and whined in his grasp, his knees weak. The stagehands knew the difference between Paul’s moans of pain and pleasure by now, and this was the latter.

Paul shut his eyes tighter, breathing heavily, releasing breathy moans as Marx fucked him and jacked him off, hitting that spot inside him consistently. Johnny and Trotsky cheered him on, encouraging Paul’s noises and pleasure. It mortified him, unable to stifle a noise, just to have it be called out by applause and hooting. 

Johnny and Trotsky watched Paul’s face get pink from their encouragement. They supposed, even in this situation, Paul was a slut for attention and validation.

“Would ya sing now, Paul? Pretty please?” Cooed Trotsky. “I want to hear yer lovely voice.”

“How about that one that goes ‘yeah yeah yeah’?” Johnny turned to Trotsky. “Whats that’un again?” He paused. “Love me do?”

“Was thinkin’ more of’a ballad one, Johnny.”

“How ‘bout the one from the music man? Don’ he sing that’un?”

“Till there was you? Tha’s a good one!” Said Trotsky, he turned to Paul and Marx. “Sing till there was you, Paulie!”

“Shut the f’up!” Paul sobbed, voice high and hysterical. He was fed up with the taunting, why were they bringing his fucking music into this? 

Paul let out a high pitched drawn out whine. He was hanging his head, face red from the stimulation. He was panting heavily, pleasure building up.

“He’s so close, I can ‘tell.” Said Marx, grinning.

He picked up the pace of his fucking, tossing Paul off quicker as well. Paul desperately tried to hold back the orgasm building up inside him, all three men watching him intently, waiting for it. Paul ultimately failed. He shrieked and vocalized sweetly (though somewhat coarse from the screaming) in his pretty voice. He released onto the dusty sheets, getting some on the watching men’s thighs.

Marx rubbed every last drop of ejaculate out of Paul’s dick, riding him through it as Paul’s eyes rolled back, mouth slack. Paul whimpered and buried his head in Marx’s shoulder bashfully.

“I got you, sweet thing” said Marx lovingly. 

“Aw, Marx and McCartney,” Said Trotsky. "A perfect pair."

Paul’s pleasure began to dissipate, turning into pain as Marx kept pounding furiously into him, chasing his own release.

Marx still held Paul’s dick in his fist, just to have a hold on him (figuratively and literally). Paul whined and yelled from the overstimulation, straining his already scratched up throat. Now that an orgasm wasn’t building up in him anymore, he was hyper aware of Johnny and Trotsky’s eyes on him, watching his body move up and down.

Marx hugged Paul’s stomach, squeezing their bodies together tightly as he came deeply inside him just as Johnny did, rocking Paul back and forth.

Paul hung in his hold miserably, he could feel hot spurts shoot inside him, pooling inside of him, just as bad the second time. This might’ve been the worst part, the physical reminder of what these men did for him, their desire for him, seeping into his gut.

Marx let him go, and Paul fell facedown on the mattress. It squeaking as he made contact. Again, Paul’s hands were bound, so he couldn’t catch himself.

Trotsky flipped him to his back, and grabbed his thighs.

“I’ve been wanting a taste of this all night,” he said. He went to put his mouth against Paul’s softened member.

Before he could do so, however, McCartney brought his bound fists hard on his head.

“Fucker! Motherfucker!” Paul screamed, angry tears streaming down his cheeks. His eyes got blurry as he brought down a second blow. Before he could get a third one in, he was grabbed by the bangs, and pulled backwards.

Paul shouted in anger, the pain only fueling it as he flailed his body, and kicked his legs.

Paul was swung over the aggressor’s lap, a sharp palm collided with his ass and he screamed. The other hand held him in place by the neck as he took hit after hit, Paul screaming each time. He wasn’t given time to recover in between each one.

He thought it was over when the hand stopped to gently caress his raw flesh. Paul breathed heavily, whining in the aftershock, just to have it begin again.

He didn’t know how long it went for, but by the time it was over, he had snot and tears running down his face, his throat scratched to hell. He probably wouldn't be able to talk much less sing for a good while.

The hand began to caress his raw skin for a third time, but thankfully, no more spanks came.

“He won’t be able to sit for a week.” Snorted Trotsky.

“I hate to do it Paulie, But you forced my hand” Johnny snickered at his clever wordplay.

Unwilling to lash out again, Paul sobbed into his elbows, laying across Johnny’s lap. Johnny stroked his back as if Paul were a cat.

“There’s a good boy,” said Johnny.

Trotsky took a turn fucking him, just as rough as he was when he fucked his mouth.

Perhaps for revenge on his pumped head, Trotsky was extra rough with his bruised hips and raw ass, finding the bruises Johnny left and pressing into them on purpose. Astonishingly, Paul was able to get erect a second time.

He was beaten down both physically and mentally, disgusted with everything happening. With the hands on him, the sweat and breaths from the three men, being cum in, having to swallow it, but his prick was hard.

Trotsky pinched his nipples, nails digging into them, and he let out a hoarse, raspy scream, which hurt just as bad. Paul’s oversensitized swollen cockhead rubbed against the rough duvet with every thrust. Trotsky ended with cumming extra deep inside him because: “You two fuckin’ did, we’re tryna get him knocked up ain’t we?”

Johnny had his way with him next from behind. Marx sat in front of him against the headboard pillows. The stagehands told him if he didn’t suck Marx off to completion, they’d “do something worse than the spanking to his prick”, then laughed cruelly at Paul's terrified wide-eyed expression.

Paul hesitantly stuck his tongue out of his trembling lips, eyes shut tight. He recoiled when the tip of his tongue made contact with the hard straining organ, tasting the sweat. Paul cried harder, but forced himself to lick a stripe down it, then stifled a gag.

“C’mon Paulie, he did such a nice job pleasin’ ya, aren’t ya gonna show yer appreciation?” Taunted Johnny.

Paul tried to catch his breath again, then brought his trembling lips to the head, smelling the strong arousal. He got his small mouth over the head, nose wrinkling. His stomach threatened to unload when his tongue touched the silt. He tried to fight every instinct he had, to run away, vomit, wash the taste of it out of his mouth with soap. Paul jerked his head off, but was too horrified by their threat. He didn’t want them to hurt him… _there_. He _knew_ they would follow through. Paul puckered his lips, kissing the head in a way.

“God, you look like it disgusts ya. Lick it for Chrissake.” Said Trotsky.

Paul opened his dainty mouth wide, trying to get it deep, but he couldn’t get past the head without gagging. He was sobbing, shaking and slobbering all over it, which didn’t help.

Marx pushed Paul’s head down on his shaft, filling his throat. Paul tried to pull off, but Marx’s hold was too firm.

“Ooh, that’s it, baby” Purred Marx.

When Marx came, he made Paul drink each drop before he let him go, just as Trotsky did. Johnny came deep inside him a second time.

When they pulled out, Paul lay face down, shuddering, unwilling to move. He’d been violated in so many ways. When he got up that morning, he would’ve never expected this. If he knew this’d be what came of it, he would’ve never become famous. He wished he’d never approached John that one day, agreed to play with him. He could’ve been a teacher instead.

Was it finally over? Each of those bastards had already fucked him twice already, from both ends.

“Don’t think we forgot ‘bout you, Paulie,” said Johnny lovingly, flipping him over. “It’s your turn. We’re gonna show you how much we _adore_ you. How much we appreciate us using your sweet body.”

“No,” Paul croaked quietly from his torn up throat. It hurt so much to speak, he couldn’t talk louder than a raspy whisper.

Paul didn’t put in the effort to move. What’s the point in struggling if they’d do whatever they wanted to do to him regardless? He couldn’t overpower them. He had tried, for the sake of his pride, to not go down without a fight, but it was just a waste of energy. They just beat him down harder.

Six hands ran over his body, gently, massaging his sore muscles, caressing his face, neck, chest.

A pair ran down from his collarbone to his inner thighs, massaging them. His head was in one of their laps, who traced his facial features, his soft lips, the bridge of his nose, pushing the hair back from his forehead, massaging his scalp, sore from the hair pulling. A soft whine escaped his shredded throat when the hands on his thighs began to touch his genitals. He was hard from the second round, but oversensitive from the previous orgasm.

Paul noticed his hands weren’t bound, but he didn’t care to move, he couldn’t handle any more punishment, and he was so, so tired. He didn’t want them to hurt his dick. The thought of it made him shiver, and they cooed at him in responce, shushed him, petting him gently.

One of them ran their hands down the sensitive skin of his palms and inner forearms, soothing the marks the rope made. Paul felt light kisses on his lips, soft kisses peppered down his body. He shifted as hands were on his nipples again, pinching and rubbing gently and slowly. They didn’t say anything besides the various gentle “sweet Paulie”, “lovely Paulie”, “dear Paulie”, cooing at him, praising him. Their tone was genuine, admiring his beauty, pleasuring him.

Paul sunk into the cheap mattress, body feeling like lead. The hands on his genitals slowly, gently, thumb grazing over his head, gently touching his balls and perineum. A single finger slipped inside his aching stretched out hole, minimally stretching it, only intending to press that spot, massaging it diligently.

Paul’s throat was too sore to make noise, but he exhaled and sighed. His prick was enveloped by the warmth of a mouth. They were so gentle with him, every touch was slow. He rolled his hips, slowly, very slowly, into the mouth, prompting more praise, more affection.

He was coaxed into a long drawn out orgasm, transitioning into it smoothly. His throat was too sore, he made a raspy grumbling noise as he unloaded into the welcoming mouth. The mouth swallowed all of it, riding him through, making sure Paul expelled every last drop. The men whispered soft praise as Paul’s eyebrows furrowed, and he arched his back. They told him how beautiful he was, how sweet he was. They placed more kisses on his lips and face. 

The mouth and hands didn’t stop when he finished. Paul struggled to get hard for the third time, and drew his eyebrows together, shifting in their hold. Paul was too weak to break away, his limbs and eyelids heavy. He was so tired. He just took it as they praised him.

They comforted his aching sore body, warming him up with touches, releasing the tension in his muscles, while coaxing gentle orgasm after orgasm out of him. He got more lightheaded with each one, slowly drifting out of consciousness.

**Author's Note:**

> God dammit the poor bastard, why the fuck did I write this. I’ve fuckin topped out this is the worst one I’ve done. I’ve got nothing against the guy, honestly, it just kept getting worse and worse!
> 
> The story’s Johnny has no relation to the other one, just wanted a generic name. I imagine the men as kinda faceless. No relation to Trotsky or Marx either lol.
> 
> Sorry if I butchered the English slang :3


End file.
